Sarah Stillwater, sitting silently, stared southward.
Someone Sarah saw said, “Seeing Sam soon?”
“Saturday,” said Sarah softly.
Suddenly, Sarah’s seven syphilitic sisters sauntered sveltly seaward.
“Sunning seems so savage,” sighed Sarah’s swarthiest sister, sunning.
“Sarah’s seemed so sad since Sunday, September second” said sassy Susan,
Sarah’s sometimes-surly servant.
“Si,” said Stella, “since Sam sailed south, Sarah’s seemed somewhat sullen.”
“Suffer silently, Sarah” suggested sister Sadie, sipping slightly stale
sarsaparilla.
Sunlight slowly subsided; Sassy Susan shouted “Supper! – Sugar
Smacks, submarine sandwiches, stuffed sturgeon,…”
She stopped suddenly.
Sarah screamed “Sam!” seeing Sam’s ship sailing swiftly, silently, spinnaker sagging, straight shoreward.
“Sarah said Sam said Saturday,” sibilated Stella.
“Surely Sarah shan’t suffer, smarty,” spat sybaritic Sonja, seeing Sarah’s sheer salvation.
Sam’s sloop suddenly started sinking, sending Sam scrambling
schizophrenically.
“Sam!” screamed startled Sarah, sobbing sorrowfully.
“Sufferin’ Succotash!” shouted Sam, swimming slowly shoreward.
“Sam’s safe,” sighed Sarah, sinking sandward, still sobbing softly.
“Surprised, Sarah?” said Sam.
“Sam’s soggy semblance surely shocks Sarah,” said Sadie.
“She’s seen similar sights, silly!” snapped Susan.
“Soup, Sam?” suggested Sarah.
“Sure, Sarah,” said Sam, “super!”
Sarah squeezed Sam.
Sam smooched Sarah.
Susan shouted “Sinful!”
Seven Saturdays subsequently, Sam spliced Sarah, so survived, seldom sadly, sempiternally.
